Just May Be a Lunatic
by BlueSuedeShoes
Summary: Jefferson returns in the middle of the night with all-new ideas for how to break the curse.d


_You may be right, I may be crazy,  
>But it just may be a lunatic you're looking for.<em>

—Billy Joel  
>"You May Be Right"<p>

Emma shot up in bed, a cold sweat broken out on her forehead. She'd been having the dream again. She closed her eyes and swallowed tightly. "Seriously?" she muttered sarcastically to herself. Of all the evidence there had every been that her sanity was in question, she felt that her dreams of tumbling down an endless rabbit hole were almost painfully textbook. "Get a grip, Emma," she told herself. Half asleep and bones aching with tiredness, she rolled herself miserably out of bed, staggering to her bathroom, trying not to wake Mary Margaret in the other room.

In the bathroom she cupped her hands under the faucet and took a few greedy gulps of water before splashing her face.

It had been months since her unsettling encounter with Jefferson Hightopp, and ever since, she had been having the same recurring nightmare of tumbling down a rabbit hole, like she was Alice in Wonderland. It was obviously no coincidence. The fact that Jefferson himself had vanished without a trace was obviously messing with her head. That coupled with his conviction that he was the Mad Hatter in Henry's book, in addition to young Paige's disconcerting resemblance to Grace, the Hatter's daughter in the illustrations, well…her subconscious mind seemed to be having a Freudian field day.

She took a deep breath, looking herself in the eyes in her mirror. "Enough," she instructed herself. "Enough already." She sighed and rubbed her face, pinching the bridge of her nose. Somewhere in the house a floorboard creaked, and she instantly forgot her nightmares and stood up straight.

Someone was in the house.

She quickly flicked off the bathroom light, closing one eye as she did so as to better adjust her eyes to the darkness, hoping it would turn out to be Mary Margaret fixing a late-night cup of hot chocolate, even though she knew that her roommate was a deeper sleeper than anyone she'd ever met.

Silently she moved through her bedroom, snatching the baseball bat in the corner of the room before slowly, cautiously opening the door of her room. She felt her heart pounding in her chest when she saw that down the hall the kitchen light was on.

_Please be Mary Margaret. Please be Mary Margaret. Please be her,_ she pleaded quietly, knowing by instinct that it wasn't. She carefully flattened herself against the wall just outside the doorway to the kitchen, holding her breath and trying to still her heart, which was pounding in her ribcage. Slowly, ever so slowly, with the bat gripped tightly in her hands, she peered around the doorframe to try to see who the intruder was.

"Jefferson?"

The word escaped before she could stop herself, and she could have kicked herself in the teeth. She'd been so surprised to see him that she couldn't help it. But there he was, standing in the middle of her kitchen, that infamous top hat lying on the ground, having been knocked to the ground from it's place above the cabinets and out of sight.

He spun around on his heel and took in the fact that she was holding a bat very threateningly. "I was leaving, I swear," he said calmly, raising his hands to show he was unarmed. "Just on my way out."

She didn't relax. She'd already been taken in by this guy once before. She wasn't going to let her guard down a second time. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

He smirked, "Shall we say…I came for my hat?" he asked, using his foot to kick the hat into the air and catching it easily in one hand. Then he gently set it on the counter beside him.

Emma rolled her eyes. "Where have you been?"

He made a show of scrunching up his face thoughtfully. "Better question: How long have I been?"

"What do you mean?"

"How long has it been since Snow kicked me out of an upper-story window, sending me plunging to almost certain death or life-long paralysis?" he rephrased dramatically.

"Her name is Mary Margaret, and it's been three months."

"Still clinging to your own short-sighted notions of reality, then? How's that working out for you?"

"You still haven't answered me. Where have you been, Jefferson?"

He started moving closer to her, his confidence that she wasn't going to bash him over the head making her feel a little nervous. "Home," he said simply.

"Home where?"

"_Home_ home. You want me to say I've been back to another world? We both know that you'll just pretend you think I'm crazy."

"Aren't you?" she said sarcastically.

"Maybe. But not for the reasons everyone always thinks."

"Yeah, you're right. I don't think you're a lunatic because you think you're a story book character. I think you're a lunatic because you lured me to your home, drugged me, tied me up, and then held me at gunpoint for the rest of the night. That was super-fun by the way," she gave him a dirty look.

To Emma's surprise, he actually looked contrite. "Yes, I do apologize for that."

Without realizing it, she lowered the bat a fraction of an inch. "You're kidding."

He gave her a less-than-amused look. "I was…_am_ a desperate father. Tell me for one second that you wouldn't go that far for Henry," he challenged her. "And you've only known him a few months. I've known my daughter all her life. Twice."

She opened her mouth to respond, but he cut her off.

"And don't you dare try to pretend you don't know she's my daughter. I can see it in your eyes," he leaned closer. "You're finally starting to believe in things."

She made a tsk-ing sound and looked away from him to break eye contact. "I know what you want, Jefferson, and you can't just kidnap her and take her…wherever it was you were. I won't let you," she said firmly, and he didn't doubt her.

"Of course not. She still wouldn't remember me, and I would never put her through that fear and anxiety. Even if all this is just a lie," he concluded seriously.

Emma allowed herself the smallest twinge of relief that whatever his delusions, he didn't plan to harm Grace. _Paige_, she corrected herself. _Paige, not Grace._

"So," Jefferson continued, now running a finger up the bat, which no longer seemed to pose much of a threat, it appeared, "my only option is to break the curse."

"Is that all?" Emma asked sarcastically. But she met his eyes and found that he was quite serious.

"Yes, that's all," he smirked. "It will be easier now."

"How's that?"

"I'm not running on faith anymore. I've seen my home. It's a barren wasteland, but it's there. I know that I'm right now, that it wasn't all just a dream."

"You're insane," Emma murmured.

In a sharp move, he wrapped his hand around the end of the baseball bat and used it to tug her to him. He easily wrested the bat from her hand and set it on the island in the kitchen. He snatched her wrist in one hand, the other grasping her hip, and lowered his face so that it was only a breath away from hers. "Not–" he enunciated each word sharply, "any–more."

Emma glared at him, refusing to be intimidated. "Well either way, you still haven't learned any respect for personal space."

He held her glare for a moment, and slowly his mouth twitched into a wicked smile. "And you haven't pulled away yet."

It was true. His hold on her was tight but not so strong she couldn't break away the second she chose to. She just…couldn't seem to make the move.

Slowly—she might have said cautiously, even—he leaned forward and brushed his lips across her jaw. She closed her eyes, shuddering as he brought his mouth to graze her ear and spoke in a low voice. "Emma Swan. Did you know," he asked slowly, "that all it takes to break a curse is true love's kiss?"

Emma scoffed. "Great. And I suppose you think that's you," she mocked him.

He chuckled quietly and the breath hitting her ear made her shiver again. "No. Maybe. Not right now, at least. You're not ready to love anyone yet."

"Wow. Thanks," she said, still not dropping her defensive sarcasm.

His hand moved from her hip to the small of her back, where he began rubbing a soothing pattern with his thumb. He released her wrist and slowly reached up to tuck her hair behind her ear, searching her face as he did so for signs she was going to spook and knock the wind out of him. She didn't. Though she remained flighty, her eyes closed for a brief moment and her lips parted at the gentle touch. "No offense," he said lightly. "But you barely know how to let your son in. Never mind your true love. You've shut people out for such a long time…you need to learn how to feel things first." His hand lowered from her hair and gently tilted her chin upward, where he held her lips close to his. The clock ticked on as they remained that way, Jefferson silently refusing to close the space between them. She had to do it, he told himself. For more reasons than one, she had to make the final move. Finally, when she still hadn't moved, he closed his eyes in surrender, about to back away.

The moment Emma felt him begin to retreat, she lost it. Her hand flew to his arm, grabbing it and pulling him back to her as her lips crashed into his.

_A Freudian field-day_, she heard herself say in the back of her mind. _Stockholm-syndrome. Self destructive behavior. Inability to—"_

But even her derisive thoughts ceased when his tongue parted her lips. She groaned into his mouth, and he wrapped his arms around her and dragged her so tightly to him that her back arched slightly under him and she gasped for breath. She draped her arms around his neck, one hand tangling in his thick brown hair while his lips continued to mold to hers, sending a heated sensation right down to her very toes.

He backed her into a wall and placed his hands on either side of her, prying himself away from her much to her body's aching disappointment. His breath was heavy as he leaned over her, observing the changes a simple kiss had wrought in her. Her skin was flushed and her lips looked swollen, softened from their usual hard line. Her eyes had darkened slightly, but more importantly, they didn't look scared or suspicious. She looked like a girl who'd been kissed and wanted to be kissed again—a part of her life he suspected she'd missed out on growing up. And most of all the challenge was still there.

He'd found it magnetizing the first time he met her: that challenge in her eyes. Even when he'd had the upper-hand, she'd never looked like a victim. Maybe it was the magic in her—that she stayed strong and brave no matter what. He was glad she didn't look at him like a criminal, but like someone she wanted to understand, even help.

She probably got it from her mother.

Their breathing steadied and he said simply, "I think that's enough for one night, don't you?"

Emma just stared at him.

"Knowing the way your mind works, I'm going to assume that you've already diagnosed yourself with Stockholm syndrome. So I'm thinking slow is good," he smirked at her tell-tale expression of disbelief.

"You're crazy," she sighed.


End file.
